


Blank Spaces

by only_more_love



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Character Study, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, POV Multiple, POV Steve Rogers, POV Tony Stark, Pining, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-it Notes, Steve Rogers Has A Type, steve has feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21977620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love
Summary: Steve discovers that not everything in this unfamiliar century he's woken up in is bad. Maybe there's a place for him in it, after all.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 95
Kudos: 295
Collections: 2019 Captain America/Iron Man Holiday Exchange





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starksnack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starksnack/gifts).



> Written for this short prompt:
> 
> 1\. Team movie night
> 
> And with my giftee's dislike of anything after 2012 in the mcu in mind.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, starksnack. :)

During the Chitauri invasion, Steve stares, his eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare, up into a robin’s-egg blue sky, and watches Iron Man fly a nuclear missile through a woundlike portal and into what Steve imagines is the vast, cold beyond of space. After this, it seems Steve was wrong—at least about Tony Stark: he _is_ “the guy to make the sacrifice play.” 

With his heart catapulting in his chest, Steve gives the order to close the portal. He doesn’t want to, but who is he if he can’t make the tough calls? For some inexplicable reason, Erskine chose him—skinny, asthmatic, lightweight Steve Rogers—for Project Rebirth; Steve has to live up to that choice, even if the living costs more than he thinks he can bear in his weakest moments. But it's as his ma told him with her work-roughened hands infinitely gentle on his cheeks, tilting his face so their eyes met: "You always get back up, Steven. Always.”

He can’t let either of them down; he won’t.

Impossibly, Stark hurtles back toward them, shooting out of the sky, a comet clad in scarlet and gold. He’s falling too fast, _too fast_ —and all Steve can do is watch, helpless, bile rising in a bitter tide in his throat. But Hulk catches Stark and brings him down safely. As Steve’s gloved hands scrabble over Stark, searching for a pulse, for breath, for any sign that he’s still alive, dread slides through his stomach in a paper-thin skin of ice.

Hulk’s guttural roar shatters the smokey, rubble-filled air surrounding them, and Stark startles awake with a shout and a gasp. “What the hell? What just happened?” Stark asks, his warm brown eyes wide in a face that Steve has realized in only the short time they’ve known each other, is blissfully mobile. “Please tell me nobody kissed me.”

It’s far too soon to give voice to it, but inside Steve takes root a feeling that’s something like gratitude. For the first time since he woke in this new century that is too loud, too bright, too fast, and simply too much, flanked by a god and a green-skinned giant, and with a fast-talking man lying at his feet, chattering about something called shawarma, Steve feels something shift. Not under his feet, but inside him where no one can see it. 

Missing Bucky and their Howlies is a constant ache, a bruise that mottles Steve’s skin in faded shades of yellow and green that lie hidden beneath the Captain America uniform that sometimes feels like it’s suffocating him. Still, Steve begins to wonder if this motley group of strangers—of spies, a god, a scientist, and a filthy-rich engineer—could someday be a team. His team. 

Wonder isn’t synonymous with hope, the latter of which is a danger Steve tells himself he can ill afford. 

But Steve smiles. Though it feels foreign on his face, like the small muscles there aren’t used to moving that way, it also feels...real.

* * *

Shawarma, it turns out, is thin, slow-roasted meat, often tucked inside flatbread. Dirty and tired from battling Chitauri and then dealing with the initial cleanup in the aftermath of the fight, Steve, Thor, Clint, Natasha, and Stark slump in uncomfortable plastic chairs at Saj’s Grill and work on their food. They eat without saying much, the relative silence broken here and there by the sounds of their chewing and the reminders of their tiny island-city’s resilience—truck horns booming, first responder sirens blaring, people shouting. There’s glass from the blown-out storefront sprinkled across the floor like tiny ice crystals; it crunches under their booted feet. 

When Steve tries his first bite, and the flavors of the chicken, garlicky sauce, and onions, tomatoes, and cucumber burst across his tongue, he can’t stop his mouth from curling into a barely-there smile. (The food, Steve has to admit, is one part of this century he does enjoy.) A glance across the small, rickety table that wobbles dangerously every time one of them accidentally presses down on it with an elbow or hand, catches Stark watching Steve with his own faint smile. That smile blurs the boldness of Stark’s features—melts the dark slash of his brows and the sharp edges of his facial hair into a more muted picture. That smile morphs from barely there to full-on—folding radiant creases by Stark’s eyes—dazzling in the additional warmth and brightness it lends Stark’s face.

A patch of dried blood lingers at Stark’s temple, a tangible remnant of the fight. Unexpected warmth seeps through Steve’s belly when he realizes he wants to wet a napkin and gently clean off the blood. He doesn’t actually do that, of course, but he wants to.

The desire is present, and once kindled, Steve’s desires rarely fade quietly.

As they each become aware of the other watching them, Stark winks, his twinkling gaze seeming to flicker down to Steve’s mouth and draw an unsteady trail of heat across Steve’s cheeks. The whole thing happens so quickly that Steve wonders if he imagined the look simply because he wants it to exist.

It’s there in that moment that “Stark” becomes “Tony” for Steve, if only in the restless confines of his mind.

* * *

The apartment S.H.I.E.L.D. puts Steve in is clean and furnished, but he can’t imagine ever calling it home. Sure, it’s the place where Steve lies down at night and stares up at the ceiling, kept company by his ghosts until sleep eventually (sometimes) finds him. But home? No.

Home means something else. Something more. It means shared meals; shared experiences; shared laughter; shared sorrow, as well. Everything Steve misses whenever he has a few seconds to sit and be still. 

The painfully white walls throughout the sterile space mock him, and Steve peers at them, frowning, and asks himself if they’d look better with artwork hanging there. (He knows the answer, of course.) Someone else’s painting. Or maybe one of his own sketches. 

But hammering nails in the walls implies a certain permanence. How can life in this apartment, in this unfamiliar century he didn’t ask to wake up in, be anything other than temporary? 

Steve stares down at his smooth, unscarred hands while his lips tremble at the corners; a memory of his mother’s tired smile after she’d worked a double shift at the hospital flares bright in his mind’s eye. Gritting his teeth until his jaw hurts with the tension, he decides to leave the walls blank.

* * *

Roughly a month after what the press dubs the Battle of New York, when most of the damage Loki did to Stark Tower has been repaired, Steve lies on his back on a padded mat in the sparring room there. Breathing hard enough that his nostrils flare with it, he glances up at Natasha, who just locked her thighs around his neck and flipped him neatly onto his back. Her bare throat gleams with sweat, but her green eyes are tranquil as she leans down and offers him her hand.  
  
“Thanks,” Steve says as he take it and bounds to his feet. The movement, the fighting, as graceful as dance, feels good. Right.

Natasha doesn’t smile, not exactly, but as she pushes a damp strand of hair off her cheek, something in her expression changes, hinting at amusement. Just as she opens her mouth to speak, the gym doors slide open almost soundlessly, and Tony ambles toward them. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt, and a splotch of what could be grease decorates the space just beneath his left eye. Steve's fingers itch to touch, to clean off the spot. To stop himself from doing something exceptionally foolish and reaching, Steve crosses his arms over his chest instead. Tony stops a few feet from him and Natasha. His hands slide into his pockets, and he rocks back on his heels. “I don’t mean to interrupt.” One hand pops back out of his pocket, and Tony scratches at his cheek. “Actually, I do.” Tony claps his hands and raises his eyebrows, tilting his head in Natasha’s direction. “Agent Romanoff has kindly agreed to move in.”

“Congratulations,” Steve says, curious where this is going.  
  
“And where she goes, so goeth Barton, apparently. I’m working on Brucie-bear, but that shouldn’t take long.” Tony turns to face Steve again and cocks his head, face lit with an expectant expression. “Well, what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

“I don’t understand.” Steve puts his hands on his hips and waits for Tony to explain.

Rolling his eyes in a way Steve is rapidly learning to hate, Tony says, “Move in here. You’ll have your own space, be away from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s prying eyes and ears, and”—Tony pauses and waves his hands with a flourish—“it’ll be good for the team.”

“What team?” Steve asks.

“Duh, Cap. Keep up. Chop chop." Tony waggles his eyebrows, and Steve tries, valiantly, to ignore the way his eyes dance as he looks at Steve. (He fails. Steve's long had a notable weakness for pretty eyes, dark hair, and a smart, sassy mouth that twists up at a jaunty angle. Not to mention a sweet pair of gams. Not that Steve's noticed the long, clean lines of Tony's in the tight jeans he favors—or the thick, lush curves of his— Ahem. Well. No, Steve definitely hasn't noticed those things.) "The team. _Our_ team. The Avengers.”

Steve shakes his head, a sigh slipping through his lips. “Tony, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“It’s not. It’s a _great_ idea. Ask Red here," Tony says, motioning to Natasha. "Cap should move in here, shouldn’t he?”  
  
“Not that Stark and I agree on much, but in this case, we do,” Natasha says. “You should move in here, Steve.”

“Come on, Cap. The team that lives together, trains together, and has movie nights together is...something,” Tony says. He wiggles his fingers in the air, and Steve barely bites back a smile.

“Is a better, more cohesive team,” Natasha says, seamlessly picking up the thread of the conversation where Tony dropped it.  
  
“See? We’re all in agreement. You should definitely move in here.” Grinning, Tony claps Steve on the back. “This is going to be awesome. We’ll have the whole band together.” The warmth of Tony's hand lingers long after Tony's hand has left Steve's back.  
  
A week later, Steve moves into the Tower.

* * *

The first Friday night after that, someone—and Steve honestly can’t say who it is—decides they should have their first movie night as a team living together in Stark Tower. Thor insists that ladies should get first choice, so Natasha gets to pick the movie. She chooses _10 Things I Hate About You,_ a romantic comedy from the 1990s. Disappointed in her movie pick, Tony makes a disgusted face and blows a raspberry in Natasha’s direction. When he throws a kernel of the buttery popcorn he just popped, directly at her face, she arches one slim eyebrow and catches the popcorn in her mouth. 

A shower of whoops and cheers surrounds them, blanketing Steve. For once, he's a part of it—included—not separate. It's a small thing, for certain, but Steve smiles as Natasha snaps her teeth into the popcorn with an audible crunch. Tony and Steve share a glance, smiling, and staring at the little crinkles next to Tony's eyes makes Steve's stomach do an odd flip-flop. He chalks it up to too many helpings of Barton's extra-cheesy lasagna.

* * *

By the point in the movie where the high school girl who is the main character stands up in front of her class and tearfully reads what turns out to be a love poem, Tony, who started off sitting to Steve’s right with two feet of space between them, is much closer, his body a long, toasty line of heat against Steve. Tony's head rests heavily on Steve’s shoulder, his quiet snores soft in Steve’s ear. 

At Steve's left on the big, c-shaped couch sits Natasha, with her socked feet tucked under her. Thor is a large lump on the floor at Natasha's feet, sighing contentedly as Natasha runs slender fingers through his hair. A few inches separate Barton and Natasha, and Bruce is curled up on the couch, two feet away on Tony's right. Tony mutters something under his breath and then lets loose a loud, jagged snore. Natasha laughs and leans in toward Steve, nudging him playfully. "Maybe you should take Sleeping Beauty to bed."

_To bed_. He tries, desperately, not to consider the obvious innuendo. "Hmm," Steve says, noncommittally, suddenly glad for the darkness that hopefully hides the pink warmth in his face. He's loathe to admit it, even to himself, but with Tony curled against his side Steve's the most comfortable and content he's been in—he doesn't even remember the last time his body felt like this—quiet and calm, his muscles loose and lax.

When the movie finishes and the lights come back on, the remaining Avengers scatter, with Natasha the last to leave. She rises from the couch gracefully, a smile softening the blade-sharp angles of her face, and pauses to pat Steve's shoulder. "Sweet dreams," she says.

"Good night," he replies. He thinks, for a second, that Natasha looks like she might say something more, but her gaze slips from him to sleeping Tony, and she just shakes her head at him, that lingering smile still friendly and slightly teasing, and leaves. 

Left with only Tony, Steve briefly contemplates covering him with one of the plush throws scattered on the opposite end of the couch and letting him stay asleep there. But the thought of Tony waking up all alone in the living room the next morning when he'd fallen asleep surrounded by the rest of them doesn't quite sit right with Steve, so instead he gently picks up Tony, one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees, and decides to carry him to his bedroom. Tony will still wake alone, but at least it will be in his own bed. Besides, Steve's seen the purple shadows painted under Tony's eyes when he doesn't cover them for events; Tony needs all the sleep he can get. Just as Steve takes his first step, Tony opens one eye and mutters something that sounds like, "'m good. Can walk."

"Sure you can," Steve answers. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got you.” He smiles indulgently when Tony's eye falls shut again, and he snuggles closer to Steve's chest, burrowing against him. There is no part of Steve that minds this. Tony's warm, and he's a solid, comforting weight. Steve tries to ignore how good Tony feels in his arms—how unexpectedly right it feels to have him this close—and it isn’t just the basic, human closeness of him that moves him; it’s the fact that it’s _Tony_ curled in Steve’s sure grip.

This moment definitely isn't one Steve will think about later, when he's lying alone in his bed, with the sense memory of Tony in his arms, heavy on his skin.

Steve glances down at Tony's face, caught by the way the dark fan of his long, thick lashes rests over his closed eyes, above his cheeks. He tries not to be aware that there's a certain amount of trust inherent in how Tony has quickly fallen back asleep, allowing Steve to look after him. 

He’s never been in Tony’s bedroom before; Steve’s gaze slides over dark wood, a sleek, plush-looking bed, and calming shades of cream, blue, and grey. The overall effect is far more sedate than Steve would have expected. Then again, Steve’s learning that surface appearances can be greatly deceiving—especially when it comes to Tony. 

Steve lays Tony in his bed and pulls the blanket up over his body, and just before he leaves him to his dreams, whatever they may be, Steve turns back, tempted, and risks a last look at Tony. An unruly curl of dark hair has flopped down over his forehead; Steve wonders if it’s as soft as it looks. Seized by longing, Steve sighs at his own foolishness and surrenders to impulse. He returns to Tony's bedside and smooths back Tony's hair. It is, indeed, very soft under Steve's fingers.

Though his feet want him to stay, Steve and self-denial are more than casual acquaintances; keenly aware of each reluctant step, he moves toward the doorway, where he pauses and takes a deep, audible breath, his chest spreading with it. Tony's sleeping face twitches into a frown. “I see the moon, the moon sees me,” Steve sings, barely audible in the night-dark hush of Tony's bedroom. The stitch knit into Tony's forehead dissolves, leaving his face unbearably soft and at ease again. "Shining through the leaves of the old oak tree." The words travel from the old roads of Steve’s boyhood, from a lullaby his ma used to sing to him, and in some strange way, they bind his past and his present in a Celtic knot. "Oh, let the light that shines on me, shine on the one I love."

Maybe Steve's voice catches on the final few words—turns slow and halting; maybe it doesn't. If it does, he and J.A.R.V.I.S. are the only ones awake to hear it.

Tony makes a small, quiet noise and shifts over to his side in his bed. He doesn’t wake, and something turns over in Steve's chest, full and warm and weighted with the dull, echoing ache of a bruise that's been pressed too hard.

Steve rubs his hands together, still feeling the phantom softness of Tony's hair. He glances up at the ceiling, even though he knows J.A.R.V.I.S. doesn't live there and Tony would tease him mercilessly for it if he was awake. "Turn off the lights, please, J.A.R.V.I.S."

"Certainly, Captain Rogers," comes the muted reply.

The next afternoon, Steve decides to go shopping for some artwork for his bedroom at the Tower. 


	2. Chapter 2

The following day, Steve finds a note stuck to his door.

You have a nice voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. The world is on fire. Again. Hang in there; please be kind to yourselves and others. <3
> 
> Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos are much appreciated, should you choose to leave them, and I respond to all comments, though sometimes it takes me a while. If you don't feel like commenting, I still hope you enjoyed this. :) Be well. 
> 
> You can find me at [onlymorelove.tumblr.com](http://onlymorelove.tumblr.com). Come talk to me if you like. I do not bite. :) Sometimes you can also find me on Discord.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you.  
Your snores are surprisingly melodious.

\- S. Rogers  



	4. Chapter 4

You wound me, Cap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are loved, but if you don't feel like leaving them, that's okay. Please take care of yourselves—and each other. May we each find at least one thing to smile about today. <3 
> 
> *hugs if you want them*
> 
> [Tumblr](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com/%22) || [Put on the Suit Stony Discord](https://discord.gg/z5WSqbS)


	5. Chapter 5

That means you're getting soft.  


\- S. Rogers  


  
P.S.  
How can I make it up to you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be well, friends. 💗
> 
> [Tumblr](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com/%22) || [Put on the Suit Stony Discord](https://discord.gg/z5WSqbS)


	6. Chapter 6

Insult to injury, S. Rogers. I'm not soft right now.  


  
P.S.  
Don't know. Kiss it better? ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope there was some literal or metaphorical sunshine in your day, friends. 💗
> 
> [Tumblr](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com/%22) || [Put on the Suit Stony Discord](https://discord.gg/z5WSqbS)


	7. Chapter 7

Crap, crap. crap.  
  
Did I break you?  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs for all of you! <3
> 
> [Tumblr](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com/%22) || [Put on the Suit Stony Discord](https://discord.gg/z5WSqbS)


	8. Chapter 8

That depends. Did you mean it?  


\- S. Rogers  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are loved, but if you don't feel like leaving them, that's okay. Please take care of yourselves—and each other. Hope you can still smile today. <3 
> 
> *hugs if you want them*
> 
> [Talk to me on Tumblr](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com/%22).


	9. Chapter 9

Which part? ;) 


	10. Chapter 10

Tony... 

-S. Rogers  



	11. Chapter 11

I can *hear* your world-weary disapproval even through a Post-It. How you manage to put all that in one word—my name—I'll never know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe, friends. <3
> 
> [Talk to me on Tumblr.](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com/%22)


	12. Chapter 12

So I guess if I asked if I could kiss you, you would say, "No." 

-S. Rogers  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there, friends. <3
> 
> [Talk to me on Tumblr.](https://onlymorelove.tumblr.com/%22)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos are much appreciated, should you choose to leave them, and I respond to all comments, though sometimes it takes me a while. If you don't feel like commenting, I still hope you enjoyed this. :) Be well. 
> 
> You can find me at [onlymorelove.tumblr.com](http://onlymorelove.tumblr.com). Come talk to me if you like. I do not bite. :) Sometimes you can also find me on Discord.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Shining through the leaves of the old oak tree (the blank spaces remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495777) by [Fluffypanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffypanda/pseuds/Fluffypanda)




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